


Winter's Joy

by Alealea



Category: Kushiel's Legacy - Jacqueline Carey
Genre: F/F, Flogging, References to Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-09-23 12:57:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20340490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alealea/pseuds/Alealea
Summary: This is my first fanfiction, ever.I spend half my holidays rereading the nine books and at a loss, searched and found the good work here.It inspired me and when I wondered what snippet I wanted to read, this story came into my mind.It happens a few years after the end of Kushiel's Mercy. Nicola is visiting Terre d'Ange and in great need of her friend.I hope your enjoy it.





	1. Winter’s Fatigue

I was tired.

A bone-deep tiredness had seeped in my body and naught in my life these last four years had been successful in healing the wounds dealt to my heart during those dreadful months. 

Not the unexpected success of my cousin Sidonie mad bet, not the settlement with the Euskerri, not my eldest being named heir to the king of Aragonia though it was a moment of pride and not even the reunion with my youngest and his wife, both hale enough in bodies but with shadow in their eyes that remembered the madness they suffered. 

I had always revealed in the game of power and politics and love. And while ambition and pride runs in my veins as surely as desire, as I'm born and will always be of the house De l'Envers, I never begrudged the higher positioned players like my cousin Ysandre or my oh-so-ambitious uncle Barquiel, our family head. 

Because I always understood the cost of those heights, and always remembered the genuine grief my fiery aunt death caused to my closest relatives and myself. 

It was my husband, with a ray of unexpected insight, reaching for the depths he usually keeps buried behind drunken bluster, who send me back to Terre d'Ange. 

For all semblances, I went to pay respect to the soon-to-be-born heir but in truth he was sending me to her. For all his playful ways, he is a gambler and the affection between us is genuine. And so he send me in the vicinity of my god-touched-lover, hoping she would reached and healed what he couldn't. 

I went and it was winter. The field were sleeping under the white blanket of snow. The air was cold and sharp. There was still a unusual soberness in most people throughout Terre d’Ange and in the City. But it was lightened by a giddy happiness at the expecting heir, whose coming was brightening the mood. For many, twas the symbol of love, of Blessed Elua’s blessing and renewal. 

Though I tried, I couldn't feel it. The mantle of sadness I bore was like a curtain between me and the world. I was, though, pretty good at dissembling. 

And I daresay none but my closest could see through the mask of my face and the emptiness of my smile. 

Reaching for my mask, making it was correctly in place, I took a deep breath before the crier announced my arrival. I ignored the slight tremor in my hands, the sad consequence of so many sleepless nights, burying it in my robes and took a step forward. 

“The lady Nicola de l'Envers dy Aragon!” the voice behind me declaimed.

I stepped inside the masque, where a flurry of nobles danced and dined and schemed. Beautiful and less deadly than they used. As I said, we had sobered. 

I paid my respect to my cousin who was understandably distracted because her eldest was unable to attend , so close to terms and her husband had choose to stay at her side. 

We smiled at the fretful ways of the young and I turned leaving my place to another noble wishing to great his Queen. 

I turned and I saw her. She was indulging a noble who by the way he was pressing her and his obvious lack of success, was more in the business of politics than Naamah's. Most certainly trying to persuade her of intervening in his favor, hoping the foster mother of the Prince Consort would have some sway. She turned him down with unfailing grace and he finally bowed his way out.

She turned and our eyes met. 

I remembered then, the last time I saw her, two years and a half ago. I had watched her as she stood, beaming with pride at the sight of the two Courcel heirs, gold and black hair intertwined as they share the sealing kiss of their bound. She had been resplendissant as always, her hair bound and meshed with small pearls, revealing the slender grace of her neck, her hands slid carefully on her usual shadow arm, who had, for once, shed his usual Cassiline reserve for a similar look of parental pride. 

Though her hair tonight were up in a similar fashion, that particular attribute of hers was hidden by a silken scarf and though it was a deep red, it wasn't the almost black hue of the _sangoire_ that only she as _anguissette_ was entitled to wear. Her bistre eyes were lambent behind her mask. The scarlet mote beaconed me and tugged my heart. Helplessly I went to her. She curtsied and dipped her head. “My lady,” she murmured and her voice was rauque. 

“Countess,” I breathed her title and my voice almost broke and I felt myself fumbling. I reached for the last dregs of energy and willed myself not to crumble. 

I don't know what she heard in my voice but her head snapped back up and she looked at me. She looked at me as the woman who had held the Name of God for months on in that deceptively small body of hers. She looked and saw me, all of me. 

And while she looked, I too saw the unexpected shadows, the knowledge and grief and the remaining last twinge of madness, of the malevolent curse that had almost took us all and underneath that, I saw a deep sea of unwarranted guilt. I took a ragged breath and she exhaled again “My lady… “ 

It was a soft caress, a delicate plea and I unwontedly reached for the scarf and slightly pulled it. Oh so slightly but enough that her eyes grew more bright and that I felt the touch of Naamah and Kushiel in each beat of my heart. It hurts. Oh Blessed Elua, it hurts that awakening, that wanting. Weary, dying parts of me stirred and oh, I wanted, I wanted so very much. 

She gasped and licked her lips. Her pupils dilating, the crimson petal in her eye looking brighter in its pool of darkness. With the will and strength of decades of practice, she put the desire away and I let my hand fall down. 

I would have hidden the betraying tremor in my skirts but she took my hand in her own, one finger gliding in the inside while another slides on her token, the only one she ever bestowed and that I always wore. 

“My lady,” she said, her voice soft and her eyes downcast. “I would very much appreciate if you are agreeable, to see you the day after tomorrow, at your private residence in the City?” 

I nodded, my head bobbing slightly, feeling lightheaded though I hadn't partake of joie tonight. As if summoned by my thought, a servant bend toward and presented his tray. Phèdre took two glasses and gave me one. 

“Joy.” she said and it felt like a promise. 

“Joy.” I answered and we tipped the glasses. The burning fire in my throat steadied me. I took my leave soon after and that night, for the first time in so many months, I slept.


	2. Winter’s Memories

The day after the Masque, I felt like a newborn.  
There was an hesitancy in my movements like a babe first step and I couldn't care less. I could feel. I bathe and revealed in the pleasure of hot water and scent, and afterwards of the slow caress of the silk of my robe on my skin. I rediscovered the taste of the food, the heavy grained bread generously covered with butter, sovialese goat cheese and namarrese honey. I took one bite and my taste buds fluttered, awakening after a long slumber. 

I watched flakes of snow swirling in the inner garden. I caught one like I used to as a child and put it swiftly in my mouth before it turned to water. The icy drop stung my tongue. The kiss of winter used to say my mother. A shy and soft spoken Namaarese to whom my father never could say no despite his more extravagant ways. I missed them I realized suddenly.

He had died long ago, years before the Skaldi trampled the manor. My mother had dwindled day by day for years, as a flower deprived from sun til one day she didn't wake up. I was already in Aragon by then but my eldest sister, heir to our family title, had send for me at the right time. And I was able to be there for my mother before she went to the Terre d'Ange beyond.   
I did missed them. My father tempestuous voice, laughing at one of my wit and my mother gentle kiss on my brows.

Deep in memories of childhood, I startled when my chambermaid put a shawl on my shoulders.   
“Tis cold outside my lady,” she murmured apologetically. ”Would you not come inside ?”  
I looked at her bewildered then at the sky that had darkened. Stars like jewels brightened the deep black blue. My breath was making white clouds in the air.   
“Oh,” I said.   
I couldn't feel sleep though I was still weary.   
“No. I will… I will go the shrine,” I said and stood.


	3. Winter’s Confession

Not all the houses in the City had private shrine. Most people go the temple. But this house had been a De L'Envers property for a very, very long time.

When Blessed Elua and his Companion left Terre d'Ange for the Terre d'Ange that lay beyond they left behind their children's children. And though we will all rejoined them one day or another, the living then grieved and mourned this separation even as they rejoiced at the divine promise.  
They cried and laughed and talk to their divine forefathers and foremothers and prayed.

Our shrine is part garden, part stones. An arc that break the winds and clever brazier, always cared for, keep the semi-enclosed space warm even in the midst of winter.  
By habit, I let my hand run over the old stones, polished by the centuries. In the center corniche was Naamah, my divine ancestress from whom a drop of ichor still run in my veins. Behind her and slightly above, a statue of Elua and dispersed in semi circle around them, all the other Companions. For though we are always first and foremost, Elua's by right and Naamah's by blood, all the lines are commingled and where added one by one.

I knelt.  
“Blessed Elua, please, forgive me!” I choked a sob. “Forgive me for I rue your command.”  
I couldn't say the rest but it burned in my thoughts.

I had followed it all my life and now, it hurts so much. “Love as you wilt”, you told us and I did. I loved as a child my closest relatives, my mother, my father and sister with all the innocence of a young heart. Growing up, I had loved lovers and friends, and my kin and their game of ambition. I have even found love in my husband and his peculiar country.  
All those loves and they pale beyond my two first. My two boys and Terre d'Ange.  
Oh yes, I love my boys, my so Aragonian eldest, my so d'Angeline youngest.

And though I have lived more than half my years in unwarranted exile, I breathe Terre d'Ange and its beauty in all my breath …_The bee is in the lavender…_

And those loves, those most cherished treasure of my life, they were RAPED ! my Lord.  
Tears run down my face and onto the ground.

We were so confused with no word from what befell Raoul. Serafin was so angry that he wanted to carve out the Terre d'Ange from him. And afterward, when we knew what and how… it was almost worse.  
When your chosens succeeded… The relief came first, yes. And afterwards, the anger came back with a vengeance. At the guilt in our dearest, at the suicides, at the sheer grief of it all ! and all that work to make it better again and it never does and it never ends.  
“And I'm tired my Lord ! So tired.”

I rose my head and turn to my left and bend it in the direction of a statue tilted with bronze, looking at the stern face and compassionate hand.  
“My Lord Kushiel, I'm so angry and I can't find love in your justice this time, I can't.  
They mind raped my loved ones and they took children, children! and sold them like livestock ! and still they live and can rejoice at our clemency and their punishment feel so so light.” I cried out.  
“And I'm so angry that it is killing me”, I murmured.  
“Please grant me mercy and compassion.”

I turned back and looked at Naamah. At the smile carved on the old stone face, at once peaceful and secretive.  
“My Lady, please give me your grace tomorrow for I have not felt your touch for so long and for the first time yesterday I longed for it.”

I closed my eyes and felt a flutter of dove wings far far away. A touch of red in a pool of dark water. A flicker of passion in an ocean at night. A red star in the immensity of a black sky.


	4. Winter’s Blessings

Afterwards, I dined lightly and slept deeply once again. I awoke fresh and alert, took my breakfast with relish, and prepare myself for my soon to be guest. 

There was not contract of course. As her acknowledged lover, it wasn't needed between us anymore.

My chambermaid knocked and opened the door. I was looking at the window and didn't turn to greet her. 

I heard the sound of fabric gliding on the tilted floor as the maid ushered my guest inside the room, bowed once and withdrew.

I don't know how long I ignored her. I could hear her breathing. It was coming shorter and shorter as if after a long run. When I turned around, she wasn't kneeling as I would have expected. She stood, breathless and her gaze flickered from my trembling hands to my gaunt face, seeing for the first time the black shadows under my eyes, that my mask had successfully hidden. 

I was dressed lightly, naked under my bathing robe, and my body, which had been reduced to skin and bones, was no longer hidden by the multiples length of fabric my couturier had implemented to conceal it. 

Her eyes widened with shock. She opened her mouth. 

In three quick strides, I erased the distance between us and back slapped her with all my strength. She crumpled at my feet and knelt, still graceful,  _ abeyante _ . I hadn't removed the rings from my hand and a drop of blood on one of then told me that I had splitted skin. 

Black and cold fury shook my body as I bend toward her. I took a grip of her attached abundant hair, auburn now stringed with lighter-colored strands and used it as leverage to raise her head toward me. 

She looked at me, her eyes lustrous with tears. Desire and shame and that awful guilt made them as dark as the coat of my favorite mount, the split above her mouth tinged her lips with red blood that echoed the speck of divine favor in her eye. I shook her once, with no gentleness. She moaned. 

“Phèdre,” I said and my voice was as cold as the Skaldi winter, “what is your  _ signale  _ ?”

Not looking up, but shocking slightly with waves of desire at the unspoken promises held in my tone, she answered softly. “For you today, Joy, my lady.” 

It infuriated me and I took a hold on the scarf that she had so cleverly kept around her slender neck. She wore a dress of modest fabric and except for that red scarf, the same she had on the mask, was quite simply dressed. It reflected the mood of the twice aggrieved. Those who had fallen prey to the carthaginian curse, who grieved for what happened and what they almost condone. The scarf reminded me of the river of blood in the battlefield, a rigulle of red current against the fairness of her skin. I pulled it, tighter and tighter and could see her pulse quickening at the pressure I was applying. When I felt her wavering near the loss of consciousness, I released her and she let herself slide down, gasping small raspy breath. 

“You dare,” I growled. “You dare present yourself to me, dress in false modesty !” My hands deftly found the lace on her back. A few twist and the fabric parted, revealing her bare backed adorned by her Marque. “Your dare! even as you flaunt such wantonness at me.” I pulled her up, leaving the dress discarded on the floor and I saw her eyes flicked to the rugged rope I had prepared for her, displayed on a small table. I tipped her neck, putting my lips just under the lobe of her left ear 

“No. “I added softly. “You think I will make it so easy ? That I will rob you of your will ? Of your freedom ?”

I took her hands and put a loop of leather in them. I folded her fingers on it. 

“Hold it tight,” I said and put the other end of the loop on a hook. It was above our heads, high enough to make her arms erect and put her on the tip of her feet. I took the scarf and tested its strength. It was a beautiful fabric but it would break easily. I use it to falsely bind her hands on the hook, letting the colorful tissue loose.

“If you let go of the bit,” I told her pointing at the leather, “the scarf will hold on for a few seconds. If it comes undone, this,” I slapped her slightly on her left buttock, “will be over.”

“You are in control, Phèdre.” 

She sends me a dejected look at that and I laughed humorlessly. 

I took the rope then, and put it on her, tightening knots like a net around her body. It made her shiver and twist. I clucked my tongue reproachfully and she stopped moving, standing still. 

This time, I didn't add the small knots strategically placed that she loved so much. And while I put it on her shoulders and legs, I also left her Marque bare. I took a step back to admire my work. 

She was resplendissant in every attire, truly. Her breasts were full and had perked up when I pulled the rope, rougher than usual, as tight as I wanted. Her skin was creamy and polished. Her marque was a beauty to behold in its own, black lines and speck of red painted with mastery on the white canvas of her body.

She bore my examination with barely concealed impatience. The blood of her splitted lips had set and she kept putting her tongue on the wound, making her mouth redder and more luscious. I frown and she stopped, a small blush coloring her cheek. 

I turned and took an item I had never used on her. I looked at the flogger. It was a beautiful object and so d'Angeline. The line of the handle was perfect and fitted my hands as if it belonged there. Straps of leather with knotted bits jingled as I took it. I had used it once a long time ago and didn't care for it. Today, it felt like perfection. 

My fury hardened as my fingers wrapped around it. 

I heard Phèdre soft sigh when she saw it. 

I let it run over her oh so smooth skin, pressing the tip of a nipple with sharp intensity, then letting the strands slide softly under the curve of one breast, then the other then further down, on the more tender skin of the belly. I flicked them lightly at her crotch and she leaned toward me. I let it slide again, on the side of her leg, going back around the perfect curve of her backside and then, without any warning, I started flogging her. 

She gasped and moaned, her head tilting backwards. I slapped her once. I saw the ravaged face of Serafin, anguish and sick at Terre d’Ange incomprehensible betrayal. I slapped her twice and saw my Raoul, changed forever by the ordeal. I slapped her thrice. I remembered my little cousin, her usual icy demeanor lost as she stood before us, her half naked body shown in offrande, her mind sharper than steel, as fury shook it. She had been the incarnation of Terre d’Ange, that day. 

Phèdre began writhing under the kiss of the lash and I stopped counting. 

I was raining fire on her, marking her back, her buttock and legs and her fingers tightened on the leather bit, gripping it with all her strength. At the same time, her wide movements tightened the net wrapped around her body, the rope biting into her skin. I don't know how long it lasted but enough for the two of us to be covered with sweat. 

Each slap felt like a blessing, lancing a wound that had been putrefying for too long. 

I miscalculated and a strand rolled back, taking a bite of the more tender morsel of her left breast. She lost her footing at the unexpected sharp pain and one hand sled of the leather loop. 

I could hear drums in my head and I took a step back, letting the flogger roll out of my hand.

Phèdre remaining fingers on the loop were slowly losing battle and I went to her. In three quick movements, I released her, the scarf and rope fell on the floor and soon after, she followed suit. Rasped breath come out of her and I could feel her frustration, pouring out of her like waves of heat. 

I put a hand on her head with gentleness, cradling her. “Don't worry,” I murmured my lips on her hair “it's not over yet.”

Then I took the sponge and put it in the basin of icy cold salted water I had prepared. I put the sponge on the red lines I had traced and she cried out, her body writhing and tightening against mine, as the cold struck her and the salt seared her wounds. 

It is said that Kushiel loved his charges too much and that he inflicted only what they could bear. 

I understood it then, Phèdre half sprawled on me, as I tended to her wounds with merciless but loving care, what it meant. And I felt the knot of anguish loosened its grip on my chest as I took a clean towel and padded her back. 

“Be done with it ,”I rasped, the words scorching my throat and I heard them ringing in my ears. 

It felt like an absolution. 

Hearing the echoing bronze in my voice, Phèdre gasped and shivered. She raised her head to me and despite the tears, she looked awed.

I kissed her then and Naamah’s grace fell down upon us, as I rose and pull her above me and let myself fall back down on the bed. 

There was no artistry in our kiss, but a deep passionate hunger, a desire to grasp and live that was almost overwhelming. 

I let my hands slid on her body, letting them glide on her wounds, knowing that the pain it provoke only goaded her pleasure. She moaned in my mouth, her crotch pressing against my thigh. She was nude and I was still dressed. Without leaving my mouth, her tongue still entwined with mine, she deftly pulled the sash of my robe and pushed the soft tissue away. Then she pressed her body against mine, naked skin on naked skin, sliding her perky nipples in circle around mine.

Moaning, I put one hand to cup her buttocks while I press this other between us. She rose slightly giving me space and three fingers went in. Oh Elua ! Phèdre was so, so ready. Heat and creamy liquid eased my way in. I put my thumb on Naamah’s pearl rolling it under my finger. She straddled me then, letting her body rose up and down while her hands kneaded my breasts. I let my nails grate the tender skin of her inner parts, pressing harder on the glistening bud under my thumb and slapped her buttocks, angling my hand on her lashed skin. She screamed as wave of pleasure sharpened by my small mercies racked her body, tightening herself around my fingers so much I could feel both our pulse through the tip of my fingers, so heated and perfectly matched that I, too, felt the wave hit me. 

Phèdre fall back on me, her head lying on my shoulder. 

We dowse for a moment, til Phèdre pushed herself up, looking at me with still dilated eyes.

I laughed at her expression and tilted her head toward my midsection. She smiled then, before bending toward my pearl and began practicing the  _ languisement _ . I freed her hair still enmeshed, letting them fall like a curtain around us. I let myself down, pleasure irradiating from me, undulating under the talented tongue and fingers applying their art, sharpened by the tender passion of more than twenty years of friendship.  _ Love as you wilt.  _

Truly, I cupped her face in my hands afterwards, bringing her face to mine and joining our lips for a deliciously soft and loving kiss, I had been blessed. 

She stayed for the night, something that had never happened before. But there was healing and profound meaning in it for both of us and we dare not trampled the gifts of the Gods. It was, truth to be said, a really long and satisfying night. 

We woke in the morrow our limbs still intertwined. I inadvertently press on her shoulders that were tinged with blue due to my roping. She jerked up with alacrity, grinding herself against me once more and it was some more time before we broke our fast. She had declined my proposal of sending for a healer, saying that the she already had made arrangement. 

We were enjoying a late breakfast or early lunch, when my chambermaid came to us in a hurry, eyes glistening with tears. “My lady,” she bobbed her head, “Countess” she bobbed once again, “tis done tis here !”

Phèdre look at first bewildered, then a smile of unadulterated happiness covered her face. 

The maid kept on . “The babe is born, tis a girl. Anielle de La Courcel.” 

We looked at each other then and Phèdre eyes crinkled as she said to me “Joy”. 

  
  



End file.
